Act IV, Scene 4b
by ThorHammer17
Summary: I wrote this interpretation of the Hamlet's journey to England for a school assignment, and it turned out really well, so I thought I'd post it. I tried to be as Shakespearean as possible, while remaining non-poetic. Hope you all enjoy!


"Hamlet, Act IV: Scene 4b"

Captain Swain stood at the helm of his ship, eager to depart from the bustling port of Copenhagen. The captain was a long-time seafarer, and his gut told him that this particular voyage held naught but ill. True, the sky had been blood red last night—a good omen—and his crew was in high spirits, but this particular feeling ran deeper, like an impassive ocean current leagues beneath his boat. He had confided this in a good friend of his at the pub the other night. His friend had agreed, and attributed it to the nature of his passengers, particularly the prince, who was said to have gone mad.

The captain, however, did not judge so steeply. He knew as well as any other man who could call himself "grizzled" that the line between madness and sanity is precarious at best, and often not too clear. No, there was something more devious at work, and he truly did not wish to know what. Years of life at sea had taught him that every man died one way or another, and that it was just as well to try to move a mountain as evade death when the time came.

A shrill horn blew from the other end of the harbor, signaling his ship for departure. The crew bustled about on the deck below, raising sails, pulling ropes, and tying knots. The captain took a deep breath, and exhaled the saline ocean air as the ship's sails caught the wind and propelled the boat forward. Hopefully, the captain thought to himself, the voyage would pass without incident, though he had already resigned himself to a weary sort of pessimism.

Several days previous…

A tall, broad, male figure wearing a nondescript, black cloak and hood walked quickly down a wet Denmark street, feet echoing through the nearby alleys with every step. The man's cloak billowed behind him in the wind as he turned down one small street after another, the only light coming from the rare, solitary lantern.

Then, suddenly, the man disappeared from view. To any casual observer, it would have seemed like an apparition, though in reality the man had merely ducked into a small recess in the wall of the alley.

Inside the wall, the man pulled back his hood to reveal a gaunt, somber face. The small alcove in which he now stood was damp and smelled strongly of sewage, and water dripped down from the wood ceiling that was barely a foot above his head with an incessant plop. The dimensions of the place were similarly constricting, allowing just enough room for the man to reach out with his elbows. The weathered, wooden door that stood before him had no handle, knob, or peephole. Recalling his recent conversation with his friend, the man rapped on the door twice with his knuckles, paused, and then knocked once more. A moment later, he heard the sound of feet shuffling on the other side, followed by an angry, guttural voice.

"Who comes?" it said.

"A friend of a friend," said the somber-faced man, following the procedure carefully.

"What is your name?" the voice barked.

"I am Hamlet."

"What is your link to me?"

"He is Marcellus."

After a moment the door opened, and Hamlet entered a dimly lit room, which smelled strongly of raw leather and festering meat.

Truly, the man who stood at the door before Hamlet befouled the already reeking room with his scent, and he had a face as ugly as the smell. A disgusting, wart-like growth covered the entire left side of his face.

"What brings the _esteemed _Prince of the Danes here to my humble hole in the wall," the man cackled condescendingly, with eyes like a jackal.

"Foul sense," said Hamlet, ignoring the man's tone. "I am to depart for England shortly, but I believe that ill awaits me there. I must not reach those shores."

"Now that's one mighty large request," said the man. "It might not be doable."

"For most men, yes," replied Hamlet evenly. "However, I do not ask you to move heaven and earth, merely to move a ship. For someone as inspired as you, it should be within limits."

"You speak truly, good sir! I happen to know a fast ship, whose captain owes me a large favor. Will your ship have cargo?"

"Of course," Hamlet replied.

"Then all that remains is my payment."

"How much do you require?"

"200 ducats."

Hamlet reached beneath his doublet and removed a heavy sack that had been tied to his belt. The metal within jangled as the bag fell on the table.

"Pleasure having your business, my Lord," the man said with a wheezy laugh as Hamlet walked out.

The prince pulled his hood back over his head and left quickly, eager to be free of the rot of that place.

Back on the boat…

In his escorts' quarters below deck, Hamlet pretended to read as he studied Rosencrantz and Guildenstern carefully. Something was remiss about them. Their words to him over the past couple of days were too carefully chosen, their speech too hasty, their eyes too fidgety. Hamlet was indeed mad, but not deranged. His mental faculties, warped though they were, still functioned with alacrity. He suspected, and rightly so, that there was more to this trip to England than met the eye. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who until this point had been speaking normally, began to grow louder. They appear to be arguing about a fire aboard the ship.

"But what if, when the waves become rough, some lantern were to fall on the floor, or on a piece of cloth? Then, all that's left is a choice between a watery grave and a raging inferno. What would you do?" Rosencrantz asked.

"I dunno," Guildenstern replied dumbly. "Whatever would be easier to survive, I suppose. Which one _is _easier?"

"It would depend on the ship, if it could be saved or not," intoned Rosencrantz wisely. "But how would flames on a ship be slowed?"

"Huh…" was Guildenstern's only reply.

"What say you, Hamlet?" asked Rosencrantz.

"Hmm?" asked Hamlet, looking up from his book and pretending as though he hadn't been listening.

"If the ship were on fire, what would be safer? To jump off the ship or to put the fire out?"

"Well," Hamlet replied, his voice taking on a lighthearted tone of intellectual bantering, "I believe it would vary by situation. To stay on the ship would indeed be safer, but only if you were able to procure a suitable retardant."

"So you would stay on the ship, then?" said Rosencrantz, as thought lines creased his brow.

"As long as you and Guildenstern were there to help stop the flames."

"You surely jest, milord. You do me great honor."

"I believe I do."

Rosencrantz blinked stupidly.

"I now retire," said Hamlet, getting up. "A deep sleep to both of you."

"We shall escort you to your room, milord," said Rosencrantz, standing up swiftly with Hamlet.

As Rosencrantz pulled on his overcoat, Hamlet saw a scroll of parchment shut with red wax that bore the seal of the King of Denmark protruding from Rosencrantz's pocket.

Rosencrantz hurriedly stuffed the piece of paper back into his cloak. Hamlet pretended not to notice, and made no comment as they made the trip across the deck to his room. However, as Hamlet lay awake on his bed, he could not shake that something within the words on that particular piece of parchment boded incredible ill for him. He rested his head on his pillow, and remained there for several hours until he was certain that his dim-witted escorts had fallen asleep.

He stood up, adrenaline rushing through his veins, and made his way across the deck with as much stealth and haste as he could simultaneously muster in the dark. He felt his way down the wall, counting off the doors he passed in his head.

One… Two… Three…

At the fourth door, he grasped the handle and pulled the door open carefully, and, when it was wide enough, slid his body in sideways. He closed the door behind him, straining his eyes to see in the near total absence of light. Eventually, he could make out the vague edges of several shapes, and began to search the room, groping about for Rosencrantz's cloak. He searched the chairs first, but found nothing. Then, he searched the dressers, but the cloak was absent there as well. Then, ironically, as Hamlet stepped to the head of Rosencrantz's bed, his foot made an odd (and rather loud) crinkling noise as it came down on a cloth object on the floor.

Having found what he came for, Hamlet quickly stepped back into his own room, where he lit a candle and unsealed the parchment, his heart beating rapidly. When he read the letter, his jaw dropped to its limit. His treacherous uncle intended to have him killed at the hands of the English king, for the crimes of murder, treason, and treachery. Because he was _mad_. Hamlet's blood began to boil, and his eyes sharpened like a fearsome hawk's.

Driven by a sudden and rash impulse, he withdrew a piece of parchment of similar dimensions from his drawer, and began to write, calling to mind his lessons in stately writing. Surely Rosencrantz and Guildenstern knew what they were doing. Such disloyalty, in his mind, was punishable by nothing less than death. Beyond that, what place did two _idiots _like them have in his all-important war with Claudius?

"Yes," Hamlet agreed with himself, "they do deserve their fate."

He dipped his quill into the inkwell, and went back to writing, whistling a quiet tune as he did so. He worked late into the night, and, after disposing of his death writ, sealed the wax on his forgery with the emblem emblazoned on his ring and deposited the new letter into Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's room. He then retired until nearly midday, to raucous shouts and clamor on the deck above.

"Pirates!" bellowed a member of the crew.

"Already?" Hamlet mused to himself.

He put on his sea-gown and opened his door, looking back towards the prow of the ship. Surely enough, a sharp, agile ship bored down on them, closing the distance quickly. Hamlet shut his door, discreetly packed a few personal effects into his pockets, and went out on the deck where, to his dismay, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern already stood listening to the first mate address the captain.

"Captain," he said gravely, "they appear to be very well armed. Do you wish for me to fetch your red shirt so that the crew will not lose heart if you become wounded, like you told me before?"

"No," replied the Captain, "but bring me my brown pants."

The first mate blinked.

"Brown pants, sir?"

"Aye."

"Yes, sir," said the first mate, who hurried off.

"We're in for a rough fight," said the captain as he steered. "You all best go somewhere safe, on the opposite side of the boat from their guns. They'll likely try to board us, so find something white to surrender if need be."

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern sprinted away, faces full of fear. Hamlet walked off at a normal pace, laughing at them all the while. He was prepared to do anything, to survive anything, in order that he might avenge his father's brutal murder. Hamlet sauntered off to the starboard side of the ship, found a likely-looking overhang, and huddled beneath it, waiting for his chance to escape the boat.

Fifteen minutes later…

The two ships collided with a sickening crunch as the marauding pirates pulled Captain Swain's boat to theirs with grappling hooks. At once, they boarded their target, and began to search for loot, yelling and whooping wildly all the while.

Hamlet waited for the invading men to reach the other side of the ship before he made his move. He peered around the corner. The coast was clear. He pulled his head back behind the corner, and readied himself for a dash. Then, as he was about to sprint, he heard footsteps and voices. He lurched back behind the wall again.

"Where could he be, Guildenstern? The king will have our heads if his life is lost on our watch!"

"Maybe they weren't in on it," thought Hamlet retrospectively. "Then again, they just might not know _exactly _what is in store for me. No sense in worrying about it. What is done is done, and they have consorted with Claudius well enough."

They went the other way, and after Hamlet no longer heard their footsteps, he began once again to ready himself for a dash. It was at the point that he saw the other ship begin to move away.

"No time for subtlety," thought Hamlet, and he ran across the length of the ship, and put his full effort into a tremendous leap.

He landed, dazed, on the deck of the other boat. When he sat up, several very large and scrappy men picked him up and dragged him to the helm of the ship, where a very important-looking man stood piloting the ship.

"You must be Hamlet," said the man, as though it were unimportant.

"Yes," the prince replied.

"Take him down to the quarters we have prepared, lads."

The captain looked back at Hamlet.

"You shall be treated well on this trip, sir. Let it never be said that we did not look out for our own prince."

"Thank you," said Hamlet.

When he reached his room, Hamlet began to write. It was time to tell Horatio all that had happened. Perhaps, to be safe, he would leave out some of the more shady details, but Horatio deserved most, if not all, of the truth of the story.


End file.
